


the first time

by somnatic



Category: Scream (TV)
Genre: Depression mention, F/M, character study ish, idk just bc brooke needs more time to mourn than just one breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8416417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnatic/pseuds/somnatic
Summary: A world in which Brooke is not with Jake does not seem to be a world that should exist, in her opinion.





	

The aftermath is not a pretty thing.

No, it is not.

It is not a pretty thing as Brooke crumbles on the floor, breaking but already broken. It is not as beautiful as it seems, her mascara trails not as poetic as some would make it sound. The tile floor is not sparkling beneath her fists as she pounds them upon it, her hair is in tangles that some would want to be a fashion statement but actually just hurt as her fingers pick them apart. 

The flowers her friends had given her are not lovely as they wither and die on her windowsill. She does not crush them between the pages of a book, she does not give them water, but she watches as the vase smashes into glittering shards on the ground. 

Her first day back at school is not patient.

Her father and the principal guide her through the empty halls, five minutes after class has started so that she does not have to face the crowds. She makes it through first period by staring out the window and accepting the condolences of the unknowing boy besides her.

Second period, she does not wait for the crowds to pass. The crowds never bother her; they mask her, they cover the way her knees quiver in her heels and the way her books are clutched so tight that they brand marks into her arms. Emma walks with her, Emma holds her hand, Emma doesn't bring it up.

But then she sees his locker.

He would hate it, would think it dumb, would think it for someone much less masculine. There are pictures of him, taped to the metal, and candles are in front of the floor but aren't lit, and there are white roses and suddenly Brooke can't breathe.

She saw the shrine for Nina- she even added to it, a little pink envelope that she signed with a lipstick kiss. She saw the shrine for Riley- she had cried and added to the flowers and taped up a few pictures herself.

This was what made it real. She tore from Emma's hands and never looked back.

Her first time with the therapist is not relaxing.

The couch is the most hideous shade of maroon she's ever seen, and the therapist is in desperate need of a dye job and tights without a run in them. Brooke wants to say what she feels but knows she can't. She doesn't know who she can trust. She doesn't think she can trust anyone.

She says this to the therapist. The therapist nods, asks how it makes Brooke feel. Brooke starts crying. Brooke already told the therapist how she feels.

The therapist hadn't been listening.

Her first time showering is painful.

The water is turned so hot that it scorches her skin red. She washes her hair in three minutes. It used to take her half an hour.

When she turns to wet her hair, the water crawls around her back and she almost thinks she feels his arms curling around her ribcage. She slides on the porcelain of her shower floor and slams her head on the glass of the shower. 

All she can think about is her freshly washed hair. 

She washes it again. And again.

The water, once burning hot, is as cold as ice by the time she finishes washing her hair.

She picks up the bar of soap now. It's soft between her fingers. She wonders if his hand ever felt this soft in hers. Brooke squeezed the bar of soap the way she used to squeeze his hand, and it crumbles in her fingers.

Her first time back in his room is not comfortable.

She's so used to curling on the duvet besides his warm body, clicking on the next Netflix choice, kissing his shoulder and neck good morning. She's so used to sitting criss cross on the carpet and painting her toes in her underwear, shrouded in his hoodie. She's used to his desk, used to the spot in his closet where she once hid for an hour during an arduous game of hide and seek in fourth grade.

His mother hovers behind her, Brooke can hear her breath shaking. His mother leaves her some alone time. Brooke sits on the floor of his closet, just the way she did in fourth grade, and finds for the first time she can breathe.

Her first time kissing someone else is not her choice.

It is, but it's not. 

She kisses Branson, leaps at him, an animal hunting her prey. She's doing this for what she lost. She's doing this for him.

She doesn't really remember what happens next. Suddenly Branson's handcuffed to the bed, and suddenly there are scissors in her hand, and she doesn't recognize the foreign words from her lips as she threatens him.

She knows Branson's not a killer. That doesn't make it feel any less better as he begs.

Her first time getting drunk is what finally works.

She's in her bed, her laptop open to his Facebook page. Her father's favorite brand of whiskey is coating her throat in bitter candy sweetness. 

She scrolls through the photos, all of them deliciously impersonal. The closest she ever got to him was a hand on his thigh during a group game of bowling that summer. She scoffs. How could they be so stupid? How could they think hiding their relationship was more important than saving it?

Brooke drinks a little more.

She misses Jake.


End file.
